


Hawaiian Caper

by rotrude



Category: Merlin (TV)
Genre: Action/Adventure, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Ferraris, Ficlet, Hawaii, M/M, Magnum P.I AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-04
Updated: 2018-06-04
Packaged: 2019-05-18 06:53:01
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,577
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14847866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rotrude/pseuds/rotrude
Summary: Magnum P.I AU. In which Arthur Pendragon is a private eye, living the life in Hawaii, and Merlin is the caretaker of John Kilgharrah's property, their common employer. Merlin likes to think though that he's P.I. Pendragon's nemesis.





	Hawaiian Caper

The palm-tree-surrounded gates have barely opened and the Ferrari is already squeezing past them, no more than a few inches lying between the hard iron and the car's chassis. Barely braking, the Ferrari dashes up the gravel drive, and towards the villa, the sprawling, sand-coloured multi-loggia edifice looming behind Merlin.

Merlin has a kind master and he owes him everything. That's why he puts up with a lot. He's turned himself into a housekeeper, which is not exactly his calling, as slapdash and untidy as he naturally is, he's moved away from Wales, a place which he loves with every fibre of his being, and settled in bloody Hawaii, where he constantly gets sunburn. Never mind the beauties of the scenery, the expanse of ocean he can look at from his window when he wakes up every morning, and the rich life of the islands. Chores are chores. And the latest is putting up with Arthur Pendragon.

Lifting up a cloud of dust that settles on Merlin's carefully tended begonias, the Ferrari swerves forward, just as the gates close behind it. The vehicle, turbo-charged as it is, roars as it snakes forward past the fronds that line the access road, and finally comes to a staccato halt right in front of the central verandah. As it stills, the car purrs like a contented cat.

Now that the car's closer, though, Merlin can spot the bullet holes in its side. There are three deep black gouges, and they mar the paintwork like ugly warts. “You damaged Mr Kilgharrah's Ferrari!” Merlin's voice, he's afraid, rises to an unpleasant screech. “How could you!”

Pendragon puts the handbrake on, then he grins at Merlin and says, “I was being shot at! You should be thankful the only victim was the car's bodywork!”

“Do you know how much that car is worth?” Merlin feels rather hot about the face and his ears ring dully, jarringly. “Have you any idea how much it will take to fix it?”

Pendragon makes a face. “It's not yours, is it? Besides, Kilgharrah can afford it. Hasn't he got another bestseller on his hands, the one about the hot spy with killer heels?”

Merlin scoffs. “What Mr Kilgharrah makes or writes has zero bearing on this.” Merlin suspects it's quite a lot, considering the kind of cheap, popular entertainment his boss pens. Dan Brown has got nothing on John Kilgharrah. But Merlin won't concede the point. Though Kilgharrah would probably shrug off the expense and abstain from defraying it off Pendragon's salary, Merlin has got to look out for his employer. “You damaged the car.”

Rolling his eyes, Pendragon pats the steering wheel. “I suppose this means I can't borrow his other Ferrari?”

“The 430?” Arthur Pendragon will give Merlin a heart attack one of these days. “No, absolutely not. You've already done the 488 in.”

Given that the soft top is down, Pendragon jumps out of the car. Merlin tries not to look at his legs in those impossibly short shorts he usually wears or at the biceps that his short-sleeved Hawaiian T-shirt bares. Pendragon's body is impressive; he is, after all, always either swimming or canoeing, playing basketball or running. But that's neither here nor there. Merlin's trying to make a point here and he won't let his attraction to the prat get in the way of his job. He's been hired to look after the house, entertain the guests (of which Pendragon isn't one, because he's a paid hand), and look after Mr Kilgharra's interests. He will do that. Handsome dollopheads who think life should be lived on a razor's edge be damned.

“Oh, well, can't say I didn't try.” Pendragon leans against the 488, crossing his legs so that his calf muscles show to advantage. “But it was really important, you know. Someone killed a friend, a friend from my army days. And I have to find out who it was.” Pendragon loses the smug grin, a soul-searching expression showing on his face in its place. “Unfortunately, a couple of heavies took objection to this, and the car got the worst of it.”

Now Arthur Pendragon is a pain in the arse, that's for sure, but Merlin can't say he's a bad guy. Merlin can tell the loss of his friend has taken its toll on him, that his mourning is genuine, the real thing. And Merlin's heart, fickle thing that it is, goes out to him. Arthur Pendragon might look like a rough, tough, save-the-world type of man, but there's way more to him than that. He wouldn't risk his life to find out who'd murdered his friend if he wasn't. 

“What sort of people do you consort with!” Merlin nonetheless says, because Pendragon mustn't think Merlin is that easy to work around.

“I think they're mafia,” Pendragon tells him, as though dealing with mafia types was a daily occurrence for him. “And I don't consort with them. They followed me.”

Merlin sincerely hopes they haven't located the house. Though the security system is actually fool-proof – Pendragon tested it and if he says it's good, it's good – Merlin had rather not risk it. If thugs rubbished the house, he would never hear the end of it. “I curse the day Mr Kilgharrah hired you as his security specialist.”

Pendragon winks at him. “Oh you don't. You secretly like me, Emrys.”

Though Merlin can't deny he doesn't truly hate Pendragon, he would never admit it. Pendragon would have him wrapped around his little finger otherwise. And Merlin isn't here for that. He has a task, a job, a duty, and though he isn't quite really as unbending as he likes Pendragon to believe, he isn't a pushover. Especially not when interacting with handsome, fine-jawed P.I.s. “Car's repair on you.”

Worrying it with his tooth, Pendragon bites his lip. “Only if you help me out with the case.”

Merlin backs away. “Oh no, I'm not getting killed by mafia goons.” Hearing the fear in his voice, Aithusa and Banshee come to heel, sinews bulging, hide shining. They even snarl at Pendragon, runnels of snot dripping from their jaws. Though they're sweethearts at bottom, they look quite scary when they're like that. “I'm most definitely not.”

Not daunted, Pendragon follows Merlin past the patio colonnade and into the sprawling house. “My friend was an upright man. He didn't deserve what happened to him. I know you believe in justice.”

To be honest, Merlin does. He likes to think he's a principled fellow, one ready to do the right thing, but he still stops his ears with his hands. “I'm not listening.”

“I could use some collaboration!” Pendragon comes after him as Merlin speeds from the hall, a large bright space with overhanging chandeliers and statues on plinths, and towards Mr Kilgharrah's study. “And though you're not trained as I am, you would do.”

“Are you starting on your I'm-a-decorated-army-veteran spiel again?” Merlin refuses to look behind, Aithusa and Banshee clipping at his side. “ Because I already know that story and read your CV and congratulations on your medals, but it's not going to change my mind.”

“It's not a spiel!” Pendragon protests. “It's a part of my past!”

Tailed by his dogs, Merlin clears the door to Mr Kilgharrah's study.

“My friend had a sister.” Still in Merlin's wake, Pendragon barges in behind him uninvited. “She needs to know who killed her brother. She needs justice.” He arches an eyebrow. “You wouldn't refuse it to her, would you?”

Merlin has always defended ladies in need. He has a soft spot for them. They remind him of his mother, who raised him single-handedly, once his truant father absconded. Though he would never presume to offer his assistance, when not required – he has too much respect for them to – he can't watch and stand by as they suffer. He really can't. Merlin's shoulders slump. “A sister?”

“Mithian.” Pendragon nods, toying with the paperweight that had been sitting on the desk, the one Mr Kilgharrah almost never uses because he's so seldom there he might as well have been a ghost. “She's a good woman.” He cocks his head. “Though she's distraught now.”

Releasing a sigh, Merlin says, “All right, all right, you don't have to go on and on about it. I get it. She needs help.”

“She really does.” Pendragon tosses the paperweight from one of his hands to the other. “And I can't get to the bottom of this case alone.”

Merlin tries not to focus on the valuable object being fiddled with, and concentrates on Pendragon. “Okay, okay, I'm in.” Before taking the plunge, he takes a big breath. “I'll do whatever you tell me to.”

Beaming at him, Pendragon leans in, and leaves a kiss on his cheek. It's a soft, timid kiss, but it leaves Merlin with a tingling in the cheek and an increased heart rate all the same.

Displeased at the amount of closeness Merlin allowed Pendragon, both the dogs bark. They're somewhat jealous, a quality Merlin's got to work on.

“I knew you were not a Welsh ogre.” Turning around, Pendragon makes to leave the room, the soles of his tennis shoes skimming the fine, shiny parquet floor.

Before Pendragon has quite quit the study, Merlin calls out, “My collaboration means you won't have the use of the Ferrari for a whole month!”

With Arthur Pendragon having the last word is really worth the effort.

 

The END


End file.
